


Memories

by fictionalthoughts



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Comfort/Angst, Din Djarin Needs a Hug, F/M, Fluff, Mandalorian!Reader - Freeform, The Mandalorian(The Mandalorian TV)/Reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:07:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22589884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictionalthoughts/pseuds/fictionalthoughts
Summary: prompt from tumblr: comfort after a nightmareaka mando needs a HUG
Relationships: The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV)/Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 75





	Memories

**Author's Note:**

> this work can also be found on my tumblr @fictional-thoughts

Gunfire. The rustic scent blood, smoke and the dust that flies in the midst of blaster fire. Gravel and glass underfoot, flashes of something white hot, fire and the burning sun watching the city burn.

It all feels so real.

Images filter through, stop motion and detailed scenes of horror, the screams, begging and crying. Blurry on the edges, the crimson blotches out all other colour, his vision obscured and broken. Bombs shake the ground, delving into destruction, upheaving peace.

Din _feels_ the panic, deep in his chest, his hands shake but he knows it’s not real, that it’s fake, it’s just a memory.

Faces swim over him, it’s hard to recognize the features, the ones who leave him for safety. He understands, but doesn’t, why they disappear. Then those doors slam shut, the careful words fade, the last glimpse of sunset, leaving him in the dark.

The panic returns. So do the faded voices, ones Din tries so desperately to recall. But it’s not really them… it’s softer and quiet. It’s a new voice.

And then he’s awake. Still in beskar, the metal heavy to his body, weakened by sleep. His break shakes, trembling for only a moment. It was sudden, a blip in time, as if nothing every happened, memory painted over with a new history.

The voice returns once more, and he turns, sits up properly. The ships cramped bunk room is dark and silent, metal shifting as the ship settles.

“Din?” You’re outside the door, half shadowed through the darkness. Mando blinks under his helmet, realizes that there’s hints of tears, hot and wet, and they cloud his vision. Suddenly the urge to break down nearly collapses him, burdened with guilt. A short sigh leaves his lips, crackling through the modulator. “You okay?”

It’s nothing, Din wants to tell you, he’s fine.

“No.”

You already knew the answer. A Mandalorians history is never kind, there’s not much love or comfort seen between the pages of the religion. Din never speaks of his past, of his story. You’ve seen his scars and made guesses here and there, but most of the scars, you figure, are deeper than his beskar and skin. “That’s okay,”

He turns his head, looking down to the metal floor of the bunk room and hears your boots crossing the short floor between them. “Is it?”

His words dig somewhere dip, they’re simple, heavy with guilt.

“Din, you don’t have to talk about it, if you wish.” You tentatively press a hand to his shoulder, and feel as if you’re stepping over bounds, maybe crossing some kind of line, seeing him so vulnerable, raw and human. His own helmet tilts, and you feel the hesitation hovering between you.

He sighs again, wishes for the proper words to come to him, that they wouldn’t stick in his lungs, block out his voice. “It’s the same one.”

Your hand leaves his shoulder, and you shift into a more comfortable position on his bed, your leg tucked under you, ignoring the pad of beskar on your thigh. “A memory?”

“Every time.”

You feel his voice, the emotion it’s holding back. It’s chipping stones and crashing waves, sad and bitterly unbreaking. It’s the most he’s said in weeks, hinting at some form of his history.

Din looks to you, barely inches away, clad in matching armour, gleaming, smooth and glinting in the dark. It’s you, behind the metal, soft for a moment, wanting him to be okay.

The thought is foreign, that one would care enough to come into his room, ask him if he’s alright.

He sighs again. You feel his eyes on you, searching through the mask, he’s distracted, and maybe that’s a good thing. You reach for Din’s hand, feel him pull away slightly. “Wait,” a whisper, “it’s okay.”

Your gentle words shift something within him. It’s different and better than what he’s always felt, in control, not lost in the stitched wounds of his history. Din lets you pull him close, your hand with his, and metal to metal.

Again, it feels foreign and wrong, your body so close to his own. Din is hesitant, waiting for you to pull away, to break apart — nothing happens and he finally caves into your embrace, dropping down softly like drifting sands through stone.

It’s unlike a Mandalorian, unlike you.

After weeks of travelling together, taking close care of the kid, maybe it’s okay to feel safe with you, one he trusts with his life. You’re not warm, the metal of the restricted armour is cold to the touch, blended with thick material, but you hold him close, let his helmet touch yours. He lets you shift until he’s resting closer to your chest piece, your ungloved hand on his shoulder, playing with the material of his shirt.

Intimacy and trust break into the feelings of fear and loss, the echoes of blasters and explosions are quiet, hushed under your short words of comfort, deep through the helmets modulator.

“You know,” your voice quiet, “you can tell me anything,” your bare hand slides up the side of his shoulder, pressed to the cold beskar, then the space between his helmet and shoulder strap, warm and snug. “It’s easy to keep everything locked away, but if you want me to listen I can.”

He knows. But right now everything feels too nice to have to relive the past again, the short moment is lasting eons and Din is okay with that. The Mandalorians arm curves around your waist, you feel his spread hand on your back between the ridges of metal, it’s on the edge of intimacy and forgotten passion, dipping into the idea of light within constant uncontrolled darkness.

Maybe he’ll tell you one day. You’ll exchange stories of the past and blood stained histories, but for now, under the cover of nightfall and within the easy, comfortable silence, it’s better to have you close.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! feedback is always appreciated <3


End file.
